


Snapshots

by Chi (Chiirios), Chiirios



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Domestic Fluff, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Minecraft, Minecraft but real, NO SHIPS ALL PLATONIC, Oneshots in the same universe, Other, ill update this as i write more, no beta we die like lmanberg, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27749515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiirios/pseuds/Chi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiirios/pseuds/Chiirios
Summary: “It’s Wilbur, by the way,” the kid says, and Phil barely manages to pick his mumbled words up.“Wilbur. I quite like that name.”ORPhilza Watson's growth from a simple survivalist farmer to a loving family man, showcased in little snippets of time.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 506





	1. "it's wilbur, by the way."

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of just... oneshots in the same universe, though each chapter carries canonicity from previous chapters. i haven't written anything long in a very long time, so i figured id start easy for me.  
> this is my first time posting anything on ao3 so let's hope this is pogchamp!!

Every Tuesday in the summertime, Philza wakes up in the early hours of the day, so early that monsters are still crawling the surface and have yet to disappear into their caves, so early that the sun hasn’t even risen yet and the stars still sparkle and the moon is still descending. Phil packs his things, gets on his horse, and travels to the town over the hill. The path he follows is the same every time; through the trees, up the mountain, down the mountain, into town. Everyone knows him too, they’re all grateful for his plentiful harvests and cheap prices. It’s always been like this.

Every Tuesday morning in the summertime, when the sun is barely above the horizon, and the birds are chirping their wake-up songs, Philza sets up his stand. The stand isn’t much; a simple wooden structure he rents out every week. He’s decorated it to his liking, counter painted white and blue, stools painted with little snowflakes to remind him of the antarctic empire. He spends all day there, selling his carrots and his potatoes and the like. The people love him, his lines practically stretching across the entire village. Other vendors are jealous, but how can they be mean and aggressive when Phil is genuinely the nicest person they’ve ever met? It’s always been like this.

Every Tuesday evening in the summertime, Philza packs up his stand, making sure to give the renter his pay and probably a tip too. Phil is just kind like that. He gets on his horse’s back and rides home, a torch in hand and a glint in his eye because his satchel, once full of crops, now full of diamonds and emeralds and other valuables. It’s placed neatly on the horse’s flank, bouncing at Phil’s side as they ride home together. It’s always been like this

And every Tuesday night in the summertime, Philza puts his horse back in it’s stable, feeding it an extra couple apples for it’s hard work, and slips inside, lights the fireplace, and reads. Then, when he can no longer fight exhaustion, Philza heads up to bed, brain empty. It’s always been like this.

When Philza rides into town one morning to find a little youngster with a yellow sweater trying to scavenge his stand for anything he can get his hands on, Phil realizes that maybe things can’t always stay like this.

“Ay, kiddo, what are you doing?” The kid freezes, head turning to the noise. Phil is on his horse (a black mare, mind you), dark wings splayed open and scowl cold. He almost looks like an angel of death or something. Though, to be fair, anyone who really knows Phil knows that he isn’t anywhere as terrifying as he can make himself look.

Phil is a farmer, not a people person. He’s a survivalist, not a talker. Everyone in town knows him, and everyone in town also knows that he’s kind but dislikes unnecessary chatter. He’s a quiet man, has little care for unneeded conversation. He’s a lone wolf, solo until the end.

The boy scampers backwards, reaching into his pocket and holding out a clearly beaten up and terribly made wooden sword to Phil in an attempt to protect himself, though it only makes the older man’s scowl fall and turn into a smile as he chuckles at the kid’s feeble attempts for safety. 

“That isn’t gonna do much, kiddo,” he says, hopping off his horse, feet making a thump on the floor when he lands gracefully. He takes the time to tie her to the stand with a lead, eyes still trained on the young boy before him. He can tell the boy is scrawny, the sweater he wears far too big on his shoulders and reaching down to his knees. It’s yellow, but so dirty and tattered that Phil thinks it could probably be mistaken for brown. His skin is pale and dotted with a few freckles (or maybe dirt flecks?), though the eyebags under his chocolate eyes make it obvious that he hasn’t gotten a good sleep in who knows how long. His hair is scruffy and a mess, knotty and full of dirt from what Phil can tell. He wears a pair of broken glasses, though they sit uneven on his face due to a large wound on his cheek.

“I-I was, I was just-” the boy steps back another step, cutting himself off by nearly tripping on some boxes. He stables himself fast, though the fear in his eyes is evident when he looks back up at Phil, worried that Phil had made advances on him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Phil says, pulling away from his horse and stepping forward toward the boy, hands raised to prove his docile nature. The boy doesn’t move, though his flinch is visible when Phil takes another step closer, the hand holding the little wooden sword shaking. “I’m Philza, you can call me Phil though.” He crouches down gently, hoping that his moves are slow enough for the boy not to be startled. There’s still space between the two of them, Phil doesn’t want to scare him. “And you are?”

At first the boy doesn’t say anything, eyes moving over Philza’s figue for a second before parting his lips and whispering something Phil can’t hear.

“Pardon?” The boy scowls, pulling his sword to the ground and taking a step back.

“I don’t want to tell you,” he says, frowning. Phil chuckles again and moves from a crouching position to sitting on his butt.

“Well, that’s okay. Are you hungry? I can offer you some of my crops, you seem like you need it,” he says. The boy’s frown quickly turns into curiosity and, without getting closer, he tries to peek within Phil’s bag as the winged man reaches for it.

Phil pulls out a bundle of carrots, and he swears he’s never seen someone visibly salivate as much as this raggedy little boy.

“Here, fresh carrots, straight from my farm.” He sets the carrots down on the ground and pushes them toward the young boy. Though he flinches and steps back, the boy quickly leans down and grabs the carrots before him, and in a frantic array of fear of Phil taking the carrots back, he climbs over the side of the stand and runs off, sword still in hand and the carrots in the other. Phil watches him until he’s out of sight, smiling softly to himself before getting to his feet and beginning to set up his stand for the day.

Unfortunately though, the boy is all he can think about all day. Friends and customers alike stop by, the baker and his daughter Niki coming by at one point to trade bread for some wheat, but Phil’s mind wanders to the boy despite everything. Even when he’s out of crops early does he only think about the kid’s bruised shins and desperate glances. Even when he has to close an hour early does he only think about the little boy and his terribly-constructed sword.

Phil leaves his horse at the stand and decides to parooze the town. It isn’t often that he strays far from the place he always sets up his stand, but when he does, he always has a reason to; and of course, his reason now was to find the boy in the yellow sweater.

It isn’t long before he is distracted by the strum of a guitar, however. Phil loves music; when he was growing up, one of the only ways to have fun in the harsh winters of the Antarctic Empire was to make music. It isn’t surprising that the soft lull of someone’s voice accompanying the pleasant melodies of a guitar have him forgetting his mission to find the boy.

He follows the lovely music into the town square. Despite the setting sun, people are bustling back and forth- perhaps heading home? Phil recognizes he should probably be heading home too, but is now determined to find the music. Eyes scanning the crowd, he spots a barely familiar yellow sweater sitting against a wall, guitar in hand. 

What are the chances?

Phil makes his way over to the boy, who is singing with his eyes closed as he blindly strums the guitar.  _ He must be talented _ , Phil thinks, able to play melodies so smoothly without even seeing the strings.

He digs in his bag and fishes out a couple diamonds for the boy, dropping them into the little basket he has in front of him.

“Quite the musician, aren't cha?” Phil hums, and the boy’s eyes snap open. He can see the fear laced in them, and Phil tries not to let a frown appear on his face. Who hurt this kid?

“You again,” the kid mumbles, stopping his hand movements and holding the guitar close to him.

“Me again!” Phil chuckles, smiling widely at the raggedy kid. He shoves his hands in his pockets and flaps his wings once, not even realizing that the sky is dimming darker and darker and the crowd is thinning out around him. 

The boy doesn’t say a word more, reaching over to look in his basket. The diamonds in it shock him, and he snaps his gaze up at Phil once more. “A-are these from you?” He asks, and Phil nods.

“You’re quite the good singer, your voice is like a siren. And your ability to play the guitar without even looking at the strings- very impressive if you ask me.” The boy looks away, blush rising in his cheeks at the compliment, hugging his guitar closer once more.

“Are you alone?” Phil asks, crouching down again. It only felt appropriate to be at equal height as the boy as to not scare him away. The boy’s chocolate eyes follow Phil as he settles himself onto the ground, and only after Phil stops moving does he make a motion to answer.

“Yeah,” the boy says, sucking in his cheeks and casting his gaze away.

“Well that’s not very poggers now is it?” Phil says, smiling despite how bad he felt for the kiddo.

“No.” The boy shifts in his spot; he’s getting antsy.

“How would you feel if I offered you a ride back to my home?” Philza asks. He honestly isn’t sure what he’s thinking- kids are taught at a young age,  _ “stranger danger!” _ ... but it isn't like he can pass up the opportunity to save a life. Too many times is he reminded of all his bad deeds, and he thinks that saving a child could make up for at least some of those.

“I don’t want you to kill me,” the kid whispers, and Phil can’t help but laugh.

“Kill you? I wouldn’t have given you my carrots this morning had I wanted to kill you!” The golden haired man flapped his wings in delight, cackling into the sky, not caring about the few stares he got.

“Here,” Phil says after a moment of laughing, pulling an iron sword from its holster on his side. The boy visibly jumps back, scrambling against the wall. “I’m not going to hurt you. You can take this- if you think I’m trying to hurt you, you can swing it at me.” Phil holds it out by the hilt for the boy, and he can’t help but smile softly once more as the kiddo inches forward on his knees and grabs it quickly from Phil’s hands, looking it over and flipping it around. “You can keep it.”

The boy looks up from the sword at Phil, eyes shining in gratitude.

“Now, do you think you’re willing to come with me?” Phil asks, and the boy nods. He gets to his feet, holding the sword firmly in his grip. He swings his guitar over his shoulder and grabs his little basket, watching Philza as he gets to his feet and stretches out his wings.

“What are those for?” The boy points, and Phil laughs again.

“My wings? Well, I can fly with them!” This only earns another confused stare.

“But you have a horse?”

“Flying is tiring, don’t cha know. It’s easier to ride here on horseback from my farm than fly anyway,” Phil says. 

“Farm…?”

`”I don’t live here, I live on a farm over that mountain.” Phil points to a mountain a little ways away, the one that he rides up and over every Tuesday. The boy tilts his head like a puppy, following Phil’s finger and looking over the mountain.

“It’s only about a two hour ride. You can sleep on the way there, if you’d like?” Phil asks, and the boy shook his head.

“You’re not trustworthy,” the kid simply says, and Phil looks at him with concern before turning and starting to walk away. The child blinks at his retreating figure for only a moment before running along to follow him, sword still tight in his grip.

“It’s Wilbur, by the way,” the kid says, and Phil barely manages to pick his mumbled words up.

“Wilbur. I quite like that name.”


	2. “do you regret it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two!! a bit shorter, but I still like it  
> i plan on making the pace for this story slow, focusing on individual interactions rather than anything drastic. it's moreso of a series of character studies rather than a story? idk, but i'm having fun  
> hope you enjoy!

Philza spends a lot of time farming and gardening. It’s one of his favorite pastimes- he much rather prefers the company of his wordless crops than the chatter of other people. He isn’t much of a talkative fellow; it’s rare that anyone gets a conversation with him that lasts more than a few minutes if you count one-word answers in response as a conversation. The man is kind, sure, but rather meek when it comes to social situations. Many chalk it off to the isolation of his little farm, but in reality, Phil picked this spot to build his home _because_ _of_ the isolation. He’s been alone most of his life, being honest. Even back when he lived with his parents in the Antarctic Empire, he mostly stayed inside reading or went on solo adventures in the woods rather than playing with the other children. His parents didn’t think much of it, though in retrospect Phil thinks they probably should have pushed him to be more interactive with the other kids his age.

It’s the early hours of the morning again, the sun is just peeking its way over the horizon and turning the sky into a painting of oranges and pinks. Phil rather likes waking up early. It lets him get a head start to the day while the rest of the world is sleeping, and he gets to see the sunrise… though the mobs that still crawl the surface are a bit of a downside. The number of zombies that have tried to break down his expertly placed fences (with little to no success at that) was astronomically higher than anyone could anticipate. Too many times had Phil considered investing in an Iron Golem for safety purposes, especially now with Wilbur at the house.

He’s on his hands and knees, digging away at the soil to unearth some fully grown wheat plants he’d been neglecting for a little too long. His golden locks are pulled back into a messy ponytail, a green and white striped bucket hat placed neatly upon his head in preparation for when the sun reaches noon high. It wasn’t often that Phil put much effort into his appearance; most days he spent outside tending to his animals or constructing something new anyway. A simple green shirt and blue overalls were all he really needed, what he wore most days.

“Phil?” A voice calls, and the harpy hybrid looks up from the dirt and toward the house, a lone figure standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Wilbur, you’re up early,” he says, smiling in greeting. The kid looks tired- perhaps woken up by something? He’s wearing the green pajamas Phil made for him, a little too long on his arms, the sleeves reaching past his wrists.

It’s been about a month since he found Wilbur on the street and took him in. Unfortunately, though, the boy hasn’t been very open, even refusing to let Phil in on his past. It hurts, but Phil supposes that things take time and he would eventually let him learn more when he trusted him. Despite that though, things had been pretty calm; Phil found that despite how troubled and angry Wilbur seemed, he was actually rather sweet and kind at heart.

“Yeah,” Wilbur simply says, watching Phil as he pulls the wheat plants from the ground and replants the seeds that come with them.

The two don’t say much to one another, even when Wilbur climbs the fence and sits on top of it to get a closer look at the methodical planting the other is doing. Phil has found that Wilbur doesn’t like to say much of anything, much like him. It was nice, not having to force conversation- he had initially been afraid that taking Wilbur in would require more interactions than he wanted.

“Phil?” Wilbur mumbles after a while. Phil hums in response, not looking up from his work.

“I was, um, thinking.” Wilbur’s antsy, shifting his weight on the fence and playing with his hands. There’s something on his mind and Phil knows it, but he’s learned enough to know that Wilbur doesn’t like it when things are forced out of him- being patient gets further with him.

“What were you thinking?” Phil asks, looking up and over toward Wilbur for a moment, hoping to urge him to keep talking.

“I was thinking, I stayed up all night thinking,” Wilbur went on, earning a frown from Phil. “I know you don’t like it when I stay up late or pull all-nighters, but I just…” the kid trails off, staring down at the ground and his dangling feet.

“You just?” Phil pokes. The kid blinks a few times and yawns before looking up at Phil and frowning. 

“Why did you decide to invite me here?” He says, and Phil sighs. “I’m not much help with, with anything,” he continues, eyes going back to the ground. He really liked avoiding eye contact. “All I am is a waste of resources.”

“That’s what kept you up?” Phil asks, getting to his feet. He drops the spade he had been holding and makes his way over to Wilbur, pulling off his dirt-stained gloves and dropping them onto the ground in the process.

“It’s a serious question, you know,” Wilbur says gruffly, lacing his fingers together in his lap and looking up at Phil again, this time the man so much closer to him. With Wilbur on the fence, they’re almost the same height. To be honest, Phil wasn’t even that tall, but Wilbur was oh so small, the boy barely reaching to his stomach; he most likely hadn’t hit a growth spurt yet, not to mention his malnourished body probably wouldn’t be growing much anyway until it got the nutrients it needed. Phil wasn’t even exactly sure how old Wilbur was. Maybe ten or eleven? To be fair, Wilbur didn’t seem to know either. He didn’t seem to be sure of much when it came to himself. Wilbur didn’t know his age, his birthday, his parents- it concerned Phil, and left him wondering more than once why he was abandoned.

After a moment of deliberation and searching Wilbur’s eyes, Phil sighed and put his hand on Wilbur’s knee. The boy flinched but didn’t move to pull away. Progress! “After meeting you I couldn’t just leave you there,” Phil said, and Wilbur narrowed his eyes in a silent gesture to elaborate.

“It was a split-second decision, okay? I didn’t like the thought of a kid like you out on the streets starving to death.”

“A kid like me?” Wilbur said, blinking a few times in confusion.

“A kid as bright as you, a kid as interesting as you, a kid as musically inclined as you- I could go on for ages.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence once more, Wilbur shifting and hopping off the fence and beside Phil. He looked up at him, though Phil honestly couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“Do you regret it?” Wilbur simply asks, and Phil tries his best not to show his shock.

“Do I regret taking you in? Of course not,” he decides on. “You’re a pleasure to have around. Plus, I get better sleep at night knowing you’re not dying on the streets.”

Wilbur doesn’t say anything, climbing the fence once more and hopping to the other side to go back to the house. Phil just watches him, not sure what to think of their little interaction.

Before Wilbur goes inside, he stops in the doorway, glancing back at Phil. “Thank you,” he says, smiling for what Phil thinks is the first time since Wilbur came into his life. Phil smiles back wide, grinning until Wilbur heads back inside to presumably go back to bed.

“How odd,” he says to himself, watching the house as lights flick off as Wilbur trudges through the house, only looking away when the light to Wilbur’s bedroom goes out.

Chuckling to himself for a moment, Phil picks the dirty gloves up from off of the ground and gets back to work, mind only traveling to Wilbur as he did so.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” he says absentmindedly. “Things are gonna be okay.”


	3. "tonight was nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like this chapter, it's longer and cute and i was very smiley writing it! :)  
> sorry for all the wilbur centric chapters lol im trying to figure out how to introduce techno

Ever since Wilbur came to his house, Philza has been making dinners. He deemed it absolutely necessary, not only for bonding, but also because Wilbur’s thin body concerned him. He’d seen the boy’s skin, it clung so close to him that his ribs made clear indentations. Though it had been nearly half a year now, Phil still was concerned (he was always concerned for the little musician), and always made sure to feed Wilbur as much as he could.

He had never cooked himself anything proper beforehand, having usually just snacked on anything he could get his hands on during the day. It wasn’t healthy, but at least he was fed. After Wilbur came though, Phil realized that that just wouldn’t do, and regularly made meals for himself and the young boy. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, even snacks. And Wilbur always ate without question, thankfully.

After setting the plates on the table, Phil moved to the window to look out on the field that was his front lawn. It was messy and overgrown with weeds- he'd have to ask Wilbur if he could do him a solid and cut the grass some time soon.

In a tree to the far left, Phil could barely see the yellow of Wilbur’s clothing sticking out amongst the branches. He had fixed Wilbur’s original sweater up quite nicely when he saw how attached to it the boy was, sewing any holes and tatters together and washing it vigorously until the dirt came out from the wool. Wil had been pretty thankful, even gifting Phil with a small smile of appreciation. His smiles were rare, but when he did smile, Phil couldn’t help but smile back.

Phil quietly opened the door and slipped outside, walking toward the tree on the far left of the property. Soon enough, he picked up the familiar strums of a guitar, and could hear Wilbur’s soft voice in the breeze. It made him quirk a grin, strides becoming shorter so that he could listen without disturbing him.

He had quickly learned that Wilbur preferred to hide his talents. He refused to sing when Phil was watching him directly, and only ever played the guitar when he was comfortable. He supposed that this tree must be Wilbur’s safe spot, having found him in it singing and playing his guitar for the third time this month alone.

He approached the tree quietly, careful not to step on anything that would alert the musician he was there. Swiftly he hid out of sight behind the trunk, listening intently to Wilbur’s quiet guitar strums and soft voice, always dripping with sweetness when he sang. Phil enjoyed it, having compared it to a siren’s song so many times before. Wilbur always shied away from compliments, but that didn’t stop Phil from praising the protege endlessly, encouraging him to open up more and more.

The tune Wilbur was singing was one he didn’t recognize. He had plenty of music discs back at home, but none of them Wilbur seemed to be mimicking; perhaps he was making his own song? Wilbur told him profusely that he wasn’t a writer, he could never come up with clever lyrics, but the trash bags full of scrapped papers with small squished songs lyrics would prove otherwise.

A branch cracked underneath his foot, and Phil silently pleaded Wilbur didn’t hear. The boy sat up, stopping his melodies for a moment and glancing around. The boy spotted Phil out of the corner of his eye, shifting himself on the branch so that he was sitting comfortably against the trunk again before saying, “I can see you, Phil. How long have you been listening?”

Phil felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Turns out he wasn’t as good at sneaking around as he had thought. He crushed the twig he had snapped under his foot before peeking out from behind the trunk, seeing Wilbur looking down at him from above.

“Not very long. Was a rather good song you were singing though, I’m glad I got to hear some of it.” Now it was Wilbur’s turn for his cheeks to flush bright red in embarrassment, clutching his guitar to his chest and looking toward the leaves above him swaying in the wind.

Phil moved to face the trunk of the tree, climbing up its rough bark easily and plopping himself down on the branch Wilbur was sitting on. Luckily it was thick and sturdy enough to hold them both. Wilbur blinked, pushing himself up with his hands and scooting over to Phil, who lazily spread open a wing and pulled him closer by draping it over his back. The boy reached up and took a few of the wing’s feathers in his hand, rubbing them between his fingers, though careful not to rip them from the wing.

“Your feathers are soft,” Wilbur murmured, moving his hands to feel the top of Phil’s wing and carefully gripping the bone. Phil smiled, amused by Wilbur’s investigation, and internally even more excited that Wilbur was letting him get so close. The kid usually panicked with more than a single hand on him.

The two sat quietly in the tree together, the wind whistling around them as Wilbur slowly explored the dark wing draped over him. He moved to the base of Phil’s wing, where it connected to his back. Phil’s clothes were cut to make room for his wings, and you could see where skin turned to feathers underneath the green cloth. He moved his hands steadily, practically preening Phil’s feathers as he surveyed, going from the base of Phil’s wings all the way to the wingtip, moving feathers with gentle motions to avoid pulling them out. The top of Phil’s wing was dark and as Wilbur went further and further down he discovered that they slowly turned lighter and lighter, the bottoms of the primary feathers almost white.

Wilbur began to hum as he tidied the plumage, Phil listening intently with closed eyes and a relaxed smile on his face. It was the song from before, Phil recognized. Though the exact words were foreign, the tune sounded similar to ones Phil would hum as he worked. Perhaps Wilbur had plucked them from him and added some lyrics…

“How come you never fly anywhere?” Wilbur asked, breaking the long silence. Phil cracked open an eye to see Wilbur staring at him, head cocked like a puppy like he always did when he was inquiring. Phil admired how curious he was, and it always made his heart warm.

“I never feel a reason to. It’s a lot of work,” he said, shrugging. “When we first met, do you remember, you asked me what my wings were for.” Wilbur nodded, recalling his less than favorable word-choice most likely. “Would you like me to take you out?” Phil asked, earning a confused flash of uncertainty from the younger.

“To, like, fly?” Phil couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

“Yeah!”

“But I don’t have wings?” Phil rolled his eyes, pulling his wing back from Wilbur’s continuous preening. Though he immediately missed the contact, he knew this was better. The sky was getting darker anyhow, and they needed to head back to the house.

Phil stood up on the branch, which Wilbur didn’t like as he frantically scooted toward the trunk of the tree and grabbed it on tight. Phil smirked, stretching his arms and wings. He hadn’t flown in a while, his muscles probably just a bit atrophied, and he needed to warm up before he flew around.

“What are you doing? Phil!” Wilbur said shakily, eyes panic-stricken upon Phil shaking the branch.

“Warming up!” The older laughed, stretching his wings out to their full wingspan. He watched amazement leak into Wilbur’s eyes, his smile growing bigger.

Phil closed his eyes and leaned down, gripping the branch and stretching out his shoulders before taking a deep breath and pushing himself off the branch, wings quickly taking air underneath them and pushing him upwards so that he didn’t fall face-first into the dirt below. He made a lap around the tree, Wilbur below watching in awe.

“Stand up and put your arms up Wil!” Phil called, and Wilbur did as told, though definitely fearful to be doing so. He hung his guitar on the branch and lifted his arms up, eyes tracking Phil as he rounded the tree once more before swooping down and grabbing Wilbur by the waist and lifting him. Phil was definitely rusty with lifting things into the air, but he wasn’t weak in the slightest, and of course, Wilbur was light and easy to carry in the first place. 

He honestly couldn’t tell what the kid was thinking; the boy below was silent, just watching the world below him pass by as Phil soared up and up. His grip on Phil’s wrists was tight, but he didn’t seem to be panicking. Phil had to admit it had taken him a while in his youth to get used to being up so high, but now he rather enjoyed it. He didn’t climb too high of course, for fear of Wil freaking out and scrambling to get to the ground; if he fell, he would just break a bone or two. Nothing major.

They soared through the sky silently for a time that Phil was not exactly aware of. Wilbur’s grip slowly relaxed, and his muscles stopped tensing. The world below was tiny, the mobs spawning looking like small cats and the trees looking like bushes. The shadows cast grew longer and longer, and soon enough Phil himself was growing weary.

After a few swoops around the house to lower himself down, Phil lowered him and Wilbur down onto a special landing pad Phil had built a long time ago. He pulled his wings to his side, breathing heavily in an attempt to catch his breath and adjust to the thicker air. Wilbur seemed to be doing the same, dropping to his knees and sucking in deep breaths.

After a few moments of catching their breaths, Phil leaned down to Wilbur as he had done nearly six months ago, concerned. Wilbur hadn’t said anything, eyes cast downward like he was thinking.

“Wilb-” 

“That was  _ amazing!”  _ Wilbur cut Phil off, looking up at him with shining eyes. Taken aback, Phil leaned away, blinking a few times before cracking a large smile and practically cackling.

“Can we do that again? We were up so  _ high _ , the creepers looked like little green sticks! And the sheep were just little clouds, and the house was so small, and the wind was so cold but also so awesome, and oh my gods Phil we  _ have _ to do that again we have to!” Wilbur rambled on as Phil got to his feet, grabbing Wilbur’s tiny bruised hands and helped him stand.

“We will! I’m glad you enjoyed it, you were so silent that I was worried!” Phil laughed, leading the boy back into the house.

“I was so mesmerized! I want to write a song about it,” Wilbur said with vigor, stomping around excitedly and hopping around Phil.

Suddenly he stopped, hands going up to his hair and concern suddenly shifting onto his face. “Oh, my guitar! It’s still hanging on the branch, I have to go get it!” The boy made a motion to head for the stairs and out the front door, but Phil shook his head and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it kiddo, I’ll go get it. Get ready for bed.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’ Mr. Go put pajamas on. We do need to eat dinner before you to bed though. The food is probably cold…” Phil trailed off, thinking for a moment before shaking his head. “Anyway, I’ll go get it for you.” Wilbur sighed in defeat and nodded, heading to his bedroom. Phil smirked with satisfaction before turning back out the door. It didn’t take long for him to thrust himself into the air and head back to the tree, immediately spotting the guitar hanging there. Landing with gracefulness, he reached for it, grabbing the instrument and tucking it under his arm before getting back into the air, squinting in the dark and looking at the spiders below that he had narrowly avoided. They were watching him with their disgusting, beady eyes, and Phil wrinkled his nose; he really hated hostile mobs. 

Rolling his eyes as a spider attempted to leap for him even though he was  _ clearly  _ out of reach, Phil flew away, back to his house, landing briskly on the landing pad. Shaking out his feathers for only a moment, he headed back inside, seeing Wilbur heading down the stairs. He glanced over, eyes lighting up when Phil held out his guitar for him.

“Thank you Phil,” he said, hugging his guitar to his chest and strumming a finger down the strings in delight.

The two walked down the stairs together, Wilbur strumming on his guitar with a soft smile on his face even when he sat down at the table when Phil went to reheat their cold food. Their night was filled with melodies from Wilbur’s calm strumming, even as Phil ushered the little musician to bed.

“Hey, Phil?” The boy said before Phil shut the door. THe older cracked it open slightly, peeking his head through.

“Yeah?”

“Tonight was nice.” The harpy blinked, a smile moving onto his face.

“I think it was too. We should do this more often.”


	4. "all you have to do is ask."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ummm i lied not a techno chapter. still trying to think of whether or not i want him to be full piglin or half? i think i have a way to introduce him depending on which i pick  
> i also have had this done since i posted the last chapter but ive been so tired so i didnt post until now oops  
> anyway!! uh, angsty chapter but for like .5 seconds because i cant write properly lol  
> enjoy!!

Philza did _not_ do good with anger. 

When he was younger, when his parents were mad and screaming at him, Phil would run into the woods and would only come back when he couldn’t feel his toes because they were so frozen. When he got in trouble at school he would hide behind a bush during recess and bawl his eyes out. Whenever he got angry, he struggled to hold back tears, even to this day. Suffice to say, he avoided anger at all costs.

Of course, Wilbur didn’t know that. Wilbur would have never known that unless Phil had told him previously (which he didn’t), so Phil didn’t blame him. Still though, the boy’s incessant angry shouting was getting harder and harder to withstand.

“Stop it! You’re being so, so… _malevolent!_ ” Wilbur cried, stomping his feet and clutching his fists. He had a thing for using big words, Phil had found. Especially when upset, he liked to flex his vocabulary.

Phil was washing dishes, trying his best to brush off whatever Wilbur was complaining about; honestly he was genuinely trying to flat out ignore him. He didn’t like it when Wilbur threw tantrums, which he had learned in the last year was a frequent occurrence. Usually he could give Wilbur some sort of way to calm down, but he just wasn’t having it today, his head hurt and wings ached and he just couldn’t handle it.

“I’m not, Wilbur,” he said, reaching up to push his fingers to the top of the bridge of his nose to hopefully relieve his headache, holding the dish he was washing in the other hand.

“Yes you are! The fact that you don’t even recognize it makes it even worse! You’re flat out _ignoring_ my problems!” Wilbur was pacing around the kitchen now, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Phil rolled his eyes.

“Wilbur, I’m not in the mood for this today,” Phil sighed, putting the plate he was washing to the side and reaching for one of the dirty cups, continuing rhythmically.

“You’re _never_ in the mood to deal with my problems! You always push me aside or try to calm me down without directly addressing things. Your blatant dismissal is… is _upsetting!_ ” Phil ruffled his wings, agitated, watching Wilbur pace back and forth and stop to shout at him. 

Phil stayed quiet, staring down at the dishes he was washing in silence. Wilbur behind him snorted, and Phil whipped his head around, frowning.

“You’re such a jerk,” Wilbur growled, crossing his arms and tapping his foot. Phil squinted his eyes, wings twitching again in annoyance. “You never even care. I’d rather go be back on the street in town.”

The ceramic plate Philza was holding clattered to the ground and broke into a million pieces, scattering everywhere. Wilbur visibly jumped back, trying to avoid getting hit by the broken ceramic. When he looked up again, Phil was standing there, rare visible anger on his face. Wilbur had backed himself up against the wall submissively, though his face was quite neutral.

“Don’t you dare _ever_ fucking say that again. I took you into my home _because_ I cared. I could have left you on the fucking street, I could have fucking beat you senseless for stealing my carrots, I could have reported you, I could have left you there alone. Don’t you ever say that to your father again,” Phil spouted angrily, approaching Wilbur and not even caring about the ceramic that hit his feet. It… hurt. Phil knew Wilbur was angry, but _goddamn_ hearing his fears coming out of his own son’s mouth made his heart throb in pain.

Phil didn’t expect Wilbur to retaliate. “You are _not_ my dad. You will _never_ be my dad no matter how much you want to be,” the boy growled, a scowl apparent on his face as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

Wilbur didn’t expect Phil to retort back so fast. “Bring your guitar down to me. _Now_.” Panic quickly replaced the anger that was on Wilbur’s face, and he stepped back, hands in a position to surrender.

“Phil, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“ _Now._ ” Phil pointed to the stairs, outwardly shaking, scowling with a red face and eyes full of anger and… hurt? Wilbur cowered back, stuffing his hands in his pant-pockets and doing as told. Phil stood there staring at the wall as Wilbur trudged away, breathing heavily like he had just run a marathon., trying to keep his anger from leaking everywhere while Wilbur was going to come back.

Moments later, the boy in question returned, tears in his eyes and his guitar in his trembling hands. Phil snatched it quickly and pointed back to the stairs with a distant frown, and Wilbur already knew he was in deep deep trouble. Phil had never been this mad before.

Only when the slam of Wilbur’s door echoed down the stairs did the harpy hybrid finally let himself lean against the wall and sink to the floor. Setting the guitar down next to him, Phil brought his knees to his chest and hugged them tight, burying his face in them and wrapping his wings around himself like a cocoon. He was shaking, though it was from clear lack of control rather than cold.

Finally, he let the tears that were building up behind his eyes fall, streaming down his cheeks. The poor bird was quivering, fingers clutching his wings so tight that he was going to rip out feathers.

His head hurt, his nose hurt, his wings ached, everything was pain. His brain felt stuck, like a printer jammed with paper. Of course, everything about the situation was settling down on his shoulders. 

Wilbur had admitted some things that Phil knew he didn’t mean. But then again, what drew the line between rage-filled words and the harsh reality of Wilbur’s true thoughts about him? The thought of Wilbur legitimately hating him sent a shiver down his spine, and he wiped at his face with a sleeve.

He felt like such a horrible parent. No good person screams and shouts at their child.

Light blue skies had turned dark from rainclouds by the time Phil had woken up from a nap he didn’t know he was taking. He hadn’t a clue the time, not that that mattered much. Shakily, he got to his feet, using the wall for support before bending back down and picking up Wilbur’s guitar. He needed to return it to him. He hadn’t planned on taking it for long.

The harpy climbed the stairs and went to WIlbur’s door, knocking his wing against it sharply to get his attention from inside.

“Wilbur?” He called softly. The lack of a response made his gut sink.

“Can I come in?” No response again, leaving Phil to crack open the door and find a terribly messy, empty bed and an open window. The dread in Phil’s gut immediately made him sick to his stomach, and he struggled to keep the bile forming in his throat down.

The downpour outside caught his attention, as it was falling into the room from Wilbur’s open window, and it made his worrying even worse. Was Wilbur out there in the rain? Had he run away? He was such a bad dad, there was no way Wilbur would ever trust him again. If he ever even came back? Phil wanted to vomit.

Anxiously, he peeked out the window, preparing to climb out and look around.

“Wilbur?” He called. Scuffling above him made him look up, and a sigh escaped him upon seeing the kid sitting on the roof, clothes soggy and hair wet from the rain, staring down at him with those deep chocolate eyes of his. Phil could not tell the emotions hidden behind them; Wil just stared at Phil, face blank and cheeks stained from either the rain or tears (Phil assumed both quite frankly).

The boy said nothing as Phil attempted to throw himself through the window, though Phil could hear him trying to stifle soft laughter as he tried again and again to shove his wings through. Eventually he managed to squeeze them so tight against his body that he could just barely fit through the window and get onto the roof. Satisfied with himself, Phil turned around and climbed his way up to where Wilbur had situated himself on a flat part of the roof. It was wet and Phil honestly found it disgusting, but he wasn’t just going to let his son vibe up here alone now that he found him.

Phil positioned himself a little ways away from Wilbur, giving the boy space if he needed it. He sat criss-cross, legs folded neatly and wings pulled back to avoid getting his underside feathers wet, though it was to little avail as they had been soaked the minute he crawled up there.

Wilbur kept glancing at him, and eventually the boy scooted over as to where he could tuck himself against Phil’s side. The harpy opened his wing and invited Wilbur under it, slightly shielding the already wet boy.

“I heard you sobbing,” WIlbur murmured, a guilty expression cast on his face like a shadow. He refused to look up at Phil.

“Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout it though. How are you?”

Wilbur was quiet for a moment, Phil could imagine the cogs turning in his brain as he struggled to find the words he wanted to say.

Eventually, he settled on a simple, “Okay.” Phil nodded, knowing that wasn’t the truth. But Wilbur would open up in the meantime if he was patient.

“Do you want to go back inside and get changed?” Wilbur shook his head.

“No. I deserve to be out here for throwing a tantrum like that,” he said, and Phil felt guilt twist in his gut.

“No you don’t. Come on,” he said, standing up and taking Wilbur’s smaller hand in his. “Your guitar is waiting for you,” he said, and he could feel Wilbur tense with shock and excitement though it was merely a moment. He led the sopping boy out of the rain, and together they fit Phil through the window again. Phil, despite his own wetness, brought Wilbur a towel and a change of clothes before he himself went off to swap his attire. He threw on a simple shirt with his signature heart and grey sweatpants before heading back to the boy’s room, finding him in the fresh pair of clothes, lying on the bed, his guitar back in his hands like it normally was.

Phil took a moment to let Wilbur notice him, the boy giving him a nod, before crawling into the bed beside him. Wilbur immediately moved over to make room for the bigger man, though was back to his side in record time.

“You wanna talk about it?” Phil asked. Wilbur just shrugged.

“Maybe.”

They sat in silence save for Wilbur plucking the strings on his guitar. He wasn’t creating any specific melody- it was most likely just a way to let his energy out while thinking.

“I’m sorry,” the boy decided on, turning to face Phil, though still avoiding his direct gaze it seemed as his eyes were still cast to the side. “I was just… sad.”

In that moment, Phil remembered that despite his vocabulary, and tall height, and maturity, WIlbur was still just a troubled twelve year old who didn’t know how to express himself properly. A look of sympathy soon replaced the one of concern on Phil’s face, and he knew he himself had probably overreacted ust as Wilbur had. Perhaps they were more alike than he had first thought.

“Sad? Why were you sad?” Phil said. Prompting Wilbur to talk always made conversations like this easier.

“I was being selfish and-”

“No, try again.” Phil cut him off, Wilbur huffing in response. He hated when he was hard on himself like that.

The boy took a breath, trying again. “I was sad because I wanted your attention, and you’ve been so busy and not paying attention to me.”

Phil frowned. Had he been _that_ busy? Now that he thought about it, he had been preparing hard for the fall festival that the town always held, disregarding Wilbur for routine.

“Why did you think screaming and making me angry was going to do that?” Phil said, putting his arm around Phil’s shoulder and bringing him closer, giving him an awkward side hug.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t think you’d get mad, you always react calmly and it makes me feel better…” Wilbur trailed off, thinking. “I said some bad things I didn’t mean.”

“I know you did,” Phil said, rubbing his back with his hand. “Things happen. It's alright. As long as we know our mistakes, we can move on.”

Wilbur was quiet. He liked being quiet, but something about this was a different quiet, and Phil could tell. Hesitantly, he once again wrapped his wing around Wilbur’s shoulder, and pulled him into a real hug. Wilbur never let him get this close before, and he stiffened for a moment before wrapping his own arms around Phil’s neck.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Thank you for saving me, thank you for taking care of me, thank you for being my dad,” Wilbur rambled, eyes watery and burying his face in Phil’s shoulder, bunching his shirt in his hands as he cried. Phil just rubbed his back and let him cry, not saying much.

“You are my dad. You’re definitely my dad. Thank you for being so forgiving. I’m sorry,” he said, sniffling and pulling away, tears drying. Phil just smiled softly, readjusting how he was sitting.

“It’s okay, Wil. Don’t beat yourself up,” He said. Wilbur was definitely going to beat himself up for this later, if he wasn’t already doing so.

“I promise I’ll pay more attention to you, alright? All you have to do is ask.”


	5. "how about we compromise?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ived had this sitting in my drafts unedited for a bit my bad  
> enjoy!! so glad to finally introduce the blade ;)

Philza had never taken Wilbur to the Nether before. The Nether made him nervous, and the thought of bringing Wilbur there made his anxiety spike. It's why he refused to take him for a whole year and made sure the room with the portal was always securely locked. Even when Wilbur had learned how to lockpick did he make sure the boy wasn’t able to get in, to Wilbur’s frustration. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Wil in the Nether, he knew Wilbur had survival capabilities, but he was absolutely _terrified_ of losing his son- not that Wilbur ever had to know that. 

The Nether was nothing like the overworld, and Phil was afraid that taking his eyes off of Wilbur, for even just a moment, could result in the boy falling into a gurgling pool of lava. Or getting fireballed by a ghast. Or hounded by Piglins. Or pushed around by magma cubes. Overall nothing good. It was a dismal, red place. Phil could remember far too many times where he had almost died, and every time he travelled there he was more and more thankful for his wings, though being there always made him worried about catching his feathers on fire. They were always full of soot and netherrack whenever he came back, and it took him hours to clean and preen them.

But Wilbur was stubborn, and for a whole year the little musician held steady, begging and begging and begging for Phil to take him until Phil finally, _finally_ gave in.

And today was that day.

Phil had been dreading it honestly, staying up all night preparing and worrying about it, over-enchanting armour and packing enchanted golden apples and fire resistance potions, too much food and all his trading gold he could spare.

It was just a trip to trade with some piglins, he needed quartz shards and figured it was much easier to just trade with them rather than go hunting deep into the Nether for small veins of them. He hadn’t wanted to bring Wilbur in very far, too worried about everything for that to be even possible anyway

Gulping, Phil stepped through the swirling purple portal and onto the quartz of the Nether hub, Wilbur right on his tail shaking with excitement when he materialized and emerged, eyes bright as he stared at the red world around him. The low grumbles of Zombie Piglin filled the air, and Phil swore the bubbling lava was trying to whisper siren songs in hopes of luring them into it.

“Please ignore the noises, alright? Just stick by my side.”

“You said this a hundred times Phil. I know already. You’re such a worrywart.” Wilbur rolled his eyes, fiddling with the iron armour Phil had equipped him with. He had actually wanted him to wear diamond, but Wilbur insisted he was strong and didn’t need the added protection- they compromised and Phil at least got to put some heavy enchantments on it. He himself wore his netherite chestplate, wings tucked close to his back and the rest of his armour shining diamond.

“I just want to keep you safe,” Phil murmured, patting Wilbur on the shoulder before stepping down the quartz steps, Wilbur following briskly behind him, sword clinking against the ground as he descended. They reached the archway that led them out of the hub, and the two stared out across the red landscape. Wilbur’s gaze flashed over the visible area, glancing from the red Netherwart trees to the fortress in the distance, and everything in between.

“Phil, this place is so beautiful. Why’d you keep me away from here for so long?” He said, not glancing away despite Phil looking over at him. With a sigh, he gazed out too. Though it was pretty, it was more deadly than anything.

“Because it's a very very dangerous place. Believe me. At least the mobs go away in the overworld,” Phil huffed, fiddling with the straps of the sidebag he had slung over his shoulder. It was obvious that Phil’s dislike of the Nether was moreso a seething hatred for it. If it weren’t for the Piglin traders, he would never go there to begin with.

“Can we go exploring?” WIlbur asked, and Phil immediately shook his head, earning a frown from the disappointed boy.

“We’re just going to find some Piglin to trade with, I told you you’re not ready to go deep yet… Wait, here, put this on.” Phil changed the topic quickly, handing Wilbur a golden bracelet before wrapping one around his own wrist, though Wilbur just sort of held his in his hands.

“What’s this for?”

“The Piglin might attack you if you’re not wearing anything gold. Here, take this too. And drink this.” Phil handed him a lodestone compass and a fire resistance potion, before clipping his bag shut and staring out at the Nether landscape once more, frowning at the sigh of a ghast in the distance. “The compass will lead you back here, and the potion is Fire Resistance,” he said without looking over at Wilbur as he pulled out his own compass, watching it spin for a moment before it pointed back to the portal He directed it to Wilbur, who looked down at his too, noting how they both pointed back to where a lodestone was.

Phil took a step down the stairs, glancing up and back at the boy who chugged down the sparkling orange potion before tossing the bottle over his shoulder and trudging down the stairs after Phil. He stuck out his tongue in disgust as he walked, dislike apparent.

“Yuck, tastes like how I imagine slurping lava would,” the boy groaned, wiping at his mouth with his shirt as they walked, his tongue heavy and burning in his mouth.

“Well, yes, it _is_ made with magma cream. The pesky cubes they come from sure don’t look appetizing.” Phil pointed across the lava lake they were walking past, Wilbur’s eyes following the netherite sword he swung with, eyeing a small burgundy cube hopping along peacefully.

“Reminds me of slimes.”

“They’re related, I believe,” Phil said, tough Wilbur was quiet, thinking.

The duo didn’t travel very far. Trudging through some soul sand and climbing a netherite wall was all it took for Phil to be satisfied with the area, a pretty large plateau on top of the wall they had climbed, several ledges overhanging it as the wall went up to the ceiling. 

Humming to himself, Phil set down the empty sack he had been holding and began to fiddle with the gold in his own bag, all the while Wilbur rattled off questions about the area. The Piglins in their vicinity watched them with cocked heads, pushing their zombie counterparts out of the way to eye the two humans and sniff for gold.

“They’re not going to hurt us, are they?” Wilbur asked, holding his hand out hesitantly as a Piglin sniffed his gold bracelet, teh sword clutched tight in his other hand.

“As long as you don’t take that off or hit them. Oh, don’t touch the Zombie ones too. They have a horrid mob mentality,” Phil said, wincing as he remembered vague memories of their golden swords cutting through his soft flesh as he ran for his life.

“Right, got it.” Wilbur nodded, slipping his sword into the holster at his side as to not accidentally use it. Smiling, Phil gave him a thumbs up before getting to his feet rfom the squatting position he was in, holding gold bars in his arms. Piglings nearby looked up at the smell of it, and soon many came rushing to Phil’s side in hopes of getting the gold.

“Tsk tsk, so desperate,” Phil scolded as though the beasts were children, not that the Piglin understood him. Wilbur snorted as walked back a little and sat on the ground, resting his head against the netherrack, fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist absentmindedly. His eyes surveyed the landscape, still in awe from how different this place was.

Wilbur gladly took the items that Phil handed him though, investigating them suspiciously. Most of the things you could find regularly in the nether by exploring, like the quartz shards feel wanted and the soul sand, while other things like the fire charges and ender pearls stood out. The collection of items was interesting to say the least, and Wilbur held onto the sack he had shoved all the items in tight.

Wilbur decided that committing this place to memory was a good idea; perhaps he could sneak back in sometime.

The close whimpering of a ghast made Phil stop what he was doing and look up to the foggy skies. Ghasts were one of the biggest reasons why Phil hated the Nether; their disgusting tentacles freaked him out, the noises they made sent shivers down his spine, and their incessant fireball shots was obnoxious.

The Piglin around him stopped too when another cry echoed through the air, and the group was silent, all watching the skies. Phil glanced at Wilbur from the corner of his eyes, frowning to see that the boy had covered his ears with his hands. The ghast’s shrieks were unnervingly shrill, and especially hurt the ears of those who had never heard them before. Wilbur looked dazed and confused, not really sure what was going on, and Phil gave him a look of sympathy.

As if on cue, Wilbur opened his mouth to speak. “Phil, what’s-”

“Shh,” Phil warned, putting a finger to his mouth despite his gaze having already traveled from the boy and back upward.

And suddenly the gravel underneath them went in all directions when a fireball exploded nearby, the ground erupting into flames. Piglins squealed and frantically scrambled like rats in all directions, the screeches of the ghast somewhere overhead somehow louder than their squeals.

Phil ran to Wilbur’s side, practically tugging him up from the ground by his wrist and dragging him along.

“What the _fuck_ is that thing?” Wilbur yelled over the commotion, still trying to keep his hands on his ears despite Phil tugging him along by his wrist as they ran across the edge of the netherrack precipice. Wilbur was stumbling trying to keep up, the sack over his shoulder weighing him down. 

“Ghast!” Phil cried. “Terrible things they are! They piss me off, those fuckers!” 

The two ran, the ghast following them as they did. It seemed intent on having them for breakfast.

Phil turned a corner and tugged Wilbur against a wall, shoving his wing in the boy’s face to keep him quiet. Phil pulled out his bow, squinting his eyes and pulling an arrow back in preparation for the ghast to show its ugly face past the wall.

Despite the screeching and explosions being heard, the ghast never floated past, and soon the duo realized that the ghast was no longer after them.

Hesitantly, Phil pulled his wing away from Wilbur and peeked his head around the corner, spotting the giant white monster almost immediately. It was fairly close by, firing at a young Piglin standing on the edge of the precipice, golden sword held high as though it wanted to fight the thing that was ten times its size.

It shot the ground near where the Piglin stood and the poor thing fell to the ground and almost into a pit of flames, ears pulling back in distress as the ghast descended on it in hunger.

Phil drew back his arrow once more and aimed for the ghast’s head, arrow piercing through its eye. The creature turned itself to see where the hit had come from, but it was far too late, as another flaming arrow pierced through its flesh and right to its heart.

The ghast shrieked, ghostly tentacles quickly flailing and desperately trying to grab onto the ledge as it crashed to the floor below.

Phil’s eyes widened quickly and within a split second he had whisked Wilbur into the air, wings pulling the two of them up high.

“What-” Wilbur started, though closed his mouth as the duo watched as the ghast crashed into the lava lake below. The tides of the lava swept upward and onto the shore, spreading rapidly. The sane Piglins on the ground ran frantically, and the zombies just let the magma tide sweep them away.

Once again Phil thanked whatever higher power had blessed him with wings.

Ascending quickly, he flew the two of them to one of the higher ledges and set Wilbur down before he himself landed, albeit a bit ungracefully as he fell to the floor awkwardly.

“This is why I don’t bring you to the Nether,” Phil huffed, wiping bits of netherrack off of his clothing as he got to his feet, spreading out his wings.

“Yeah yeah I get it now,” Wilbur retorted, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing to the side with a scowl. Phil rolled his eyes and looked to his wings, examining them. A few of his primary and secondary feathers had been burnt, but for the most part they were intact. He bent them against his side and spread them out again before nodding to himself, satisfied that they worked fine even with his awkward landing. He usually disliked taking his wings out in the Nether due to their flammability, but of course when situations were dire he couldn’t avoid using them. 

He looked up to Wilbur gazing out over the ledge, eyes squinted. The harpy followed his gaze, eyes resting on a particularly familiar Piglin sitting in the soulsand cradling what seemed to be its arm.

“That’s the one the ghast was aiming for,” Phil said, putting a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder.

“It looks hurt,” the boy murmured in response, eyes still trained on the poor little thing even with Phil pulling him back from the edge. “Can we see if we can help him?”

“Ah… alright.” It wouldn’t hurt to go see if the pig was okay, right? Phil handed Wilbur the sack of items they had been lugging around and briskly leapt into the air, picking Wilbur up and flying the two of them over to the ledge the little piglet was on. They landed a little ways away, Phil dropping the boy less gracefully than before, though his own landing was much better. Wilbur huffed as he got to his feet, though his eyes were transfixed on the little pig.

Wilbur crept over to the Piglin slowly. Phil watched from afar as the boy approached the piglet, the creature’s eyes watching Wilbur as he took slow steps forward.

“Hey little guy! I’m not gonna hurt you, don’t worry,” Wilbur said, voice uncharacteristically sweet. Phil didn’t know if Wilbur knew the Piglin couldn’t understand English. The creature watched him with a tilted head, ears flopping lazily.

Wilbur crouched down slowly, getting to his knees in what felt like slow motion. The beast just sort of stared at him, blinks occasionally interrupting its haunted gaze.

“Wil, be careful,” Phil called, though Wilbur didn't acknowledge him as he slowly held out his hand for the Piglin to smell. It tilted its head upward, nose twitching as it sniffed him and huffled colder air onto his skin. Wilbur laughed lightly, pulling his hand away and adjusting his sitting position to indian style.

“You’re hurt, did you get burnt?” The Piglin blinked at him a few times before holding up its left arm to him, pink skin discolored a dark red, patchy and disgusting. Phil stepped toward the duo, though the pig flinched, eyes darting to him. Wilbur clapped his hands together once, redirecting the pig’s attention from Phil’s subtle movement so the harpy could move closer.

“Yikes, that looks bad. Can my dad and I help with it?” Wilbur asked. The beast glanced to Phil again, who was slowly sidestepping over oncemore. He approached carefully, the piglet’s eyes raking over him before turning back to Wilbur and snorting.

“I think that’s a yes, Phil?” Wilbur said to the older man, who nodded, bandages and healing potion already in his hands. Wilbur smiled gratefully, the corner of his eyes crinkling before he turned to the piglet once more.

“This might hurt, don’t run though, okay? It’ll only sting for a moment,” He said slowly, undoing the cap of the potion and allowing the pig to smell it. Once it seemed satisfied, Wilbur nodded with a smile, carefully taking the pig’s arm in his hand and pouring the potion over his arm. It sizzled and the pig squealed, trying to pull away though Wilbur held his arm tight so that he could not run away. After a moment the pig settled down, snorts like desperate sobs as it tried to hold back its tears. Phil didn’t think these beasts could express this much emotion… this one was surely different. Most of them were gold-hungry savages, but this one seemed intelligent. It certainly piqued his interest.

“Hey, hey it's alright! The bad part is over, now I just need to wrap up your arm. Hold still okay?” The piglin twitched an ear at Wilbur’s words, hesitantly unstiffening so Wil could wrap the bandages properly. It only took a moment, and Wilbur tied the bandages in a sharp bow before letting go, and the Piglin pulled back, flexing its arm as if to test it.

“There! All good,” he said, the Piglin looking back up at him and blinking before getting to its feet and practically racing off.

“Must’ve had somewhere to be,” Phil said, smiling. Wilbur shrugged, getting to his feet. Phil followed, mimicking the younger and getting up as well.

“I’m proud of you, Wil.” Wilbur’s ears went red at Phil’s words, and he crossed his arms over his chest and avoided eye contact like he tended to do when embarrassed. Phil placed a hand on his shoulder, grinning wide.

The tender moment was interrupted by squealing, and the duo turned their heads in unison to the noise. The Piglin had returned, trotting over a netherrack hill, this time a beaten golden sword in hand. It stopped a few meters away, tilting its head and snorting. 

“Whatcha want, kid?” Phil asked it. The beast simply snorted before pointing its sword in an insignificant direction, and the duo exchanged glances before silently agreeing that it wanted them to follow it somewhere.

“Should we?” Phil asked, hesitant to go traveling back through the Nether and further from the portal. 

“Of course we should!” Wilbur laughed, evidently not picking up on Phil’s hesitance. “Lead the way dude!” He said, walking over to the Piglin. On its feet, the beast’s head was at Wilbur’s chest, and it looked up at him expectantly, blinking a few times before trotting off. Wilbur followed close behind, and Phil was left to tug the sack behind them both, all too aware of the world around them.

They ended up back at the hub. What were the chances? Surely it had been an accident, The piglet had stopped in front of the hub, not daring to cross onto the quartz material.

Phil tipped his hat to the beast, fishing a golden carrot from out his bag and handing it to it. It greedily took it in its hooves, but showed self restraint when, rather than eating it immediately, it just held it and huffed.

“Thank you for leading us back to the portal,” Phil said, giving the Piglin a thumbs up despite the beast not having fingers of its own to even know what that meant. Wilbur laughed, and the two walked toward the portal, Wilbur rambling and Phil listening with a smile.

In what seemed to be a moment’s decision, the Piglin stepped hesitantly onto the refined quartz, squealing in a desperate attempt to get the attention of the humans. Wilbur stopped in his tracks and looked back, Phil doing the same not a moment later.

“What’s up?” Wil asked it. It squealed again, reluctance in each step it took closer to them. Its hooves clicked on the quartz, and it vaguely reminded Phil of his horse trotting into town.

“You want to come with?” The pig squealed, hooves clinking as it practically ran to be at their sides. Phil swore it made a noise that sounded like a please, but he shoved the thought down for the bigger matter at hand; Wilbur was about to adopt a Piglin into their lives.

Phil had never considered the Piglins as a whole very intelligent. Though they were smart enough to have somewhat civilized packs, for the most part they were quite stupid in comparison to humans. They had a hive mind mentality, attacked anyone and anything not wearing gold on their person, and somehow had the ability to trade items for their precious gold even though it littered the Nether like trash in the overworld towns.

This Piglin seemed to be different. It seemed to understand human speech, even made attempts to vocalize and mimic humans on its own. It wasn't scared, wasn't savage like the others. Phil almost felt sorry for it, having to live amongst the rest of these unintelligent mobs.

"Eh, why not. Come on little guy." Phil beckoned the pig closer to the portal and it squealed in delight. Together they walked to it, stopping just outside the swirling mass. The Piglin pinned it's ears back, not liking the noises the portal made.

"Ah… there is, _one_ slight problem," Phil said, and he put his finger to his chin, thinking.

"Problem?" Wilbur frowned.

"Nevermind, I fixed it." Phil reached into his side bag and pulled out one of the enchanted golden apples. He handed it to the piglin, who sniffed it, staring at it in it's hooves. "Piglins, after 15 minutes of being in the overworld, have the chance to turn into zombies. I believe if we get past the initial period this little guy should be fine, but by eating a golden apple it reduces his chances to turn into one at all," Phil said triumphantly, urging the pig to eat the apple. "Go on, it's good!" The Piglin took a bite, and in moments the apple was gone.

Phil patted Piglin's head and ushered him and Wilbur into the portal, not stepping in himself until the two were gone. 

On the other side, Phil very quickly realized this Piglin was going to be a handful.

"Awww little piggie doesn't like it when his big bro gives him noogies?" Wilbur spouted. He was standing over the pig laughing as it batted it's hooves at him, a deep frown set on its face and angry snorts escaping it.

"Wilbur, Wilbur stop teasing him," Phil reprimanded as he emerged from the portal. Wil immediately stopped, pulling his hands away in shame. "Good, come on.” The two boys followed Phil as they walked the walk from the portal to their home.

“Phil,” Wilbur started. Phil glanced over at him; the Piglin was holding his hand, it barely keeping up with him as it trotted along. Phil tilted his head in response. “What do we call him?” Wilbur lifted the piglet’s hand up, and it looked up and snorted at him.

“I’m not sure, I don’t think it has a name we can pronounce in English,” Phil said, and the Piglin grunted, nodding in agreement. “If it has a name at all,” he added.

“Does that mean _we_ get to name him?” Wilbur said, eyes practically blinding with how bright he was shining with excitement. Phil rolled his eyes with a smile, nodding.

“Yes, if he’s okay with it.” The Piglin grunted, nodding its head profusely. Wilbur skipped around on his tiptoes, jumping up and hanging on a low hanging branch of a tree for a moment.

“I like _Spinecrusher,_ ” he said, turning on his feet as he kept walking.

“Absolutely not, please pick something else. Something… _nicer._ ” Wilbur groaned, clearly not agreeing with Phil’s assessment. He rattled off a few more names, each declined by Phil, to his annoyance.

“How about something nice but still cool, like Techno?” Phil suggested. Wilbur crossed his arms and shrugged.

“That’s… okay. Maybe something even cooler though. Like _Blade_.” Phil huffed, the house coming into view.

“How about we compromise? Technoblade?” The piglin squealed something similar to a yes, and Wilbur nodded. 

“Okay, I like that. We can call him Techno or Blade for short!” Wilbur hopped up onto the porch, throwing the front door open and skipping into the house.

“Technooooblaaaaaddeeeeee!” He cried, the Piglin following him, squealing.

“I can’t believe I just adopted another son,” Phil groaned to himself, following the duo inside, taking his helmet off and running his hand through his hair.


	6. “stupid little idiots. I love them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello good afternoon my friends thank you for all the nice comments omg i love you all <3  
> IN OTHER NEWS the only time i have stopped listening to wilbur's "your new boyfriend" since it came out is to watch techno stream LOSING MY MIND AT THIS MAN STREAMING THREE DAYS IN A ROW!!!!!  
> Anyway enjoy, growing pains for the brothers :>

Philza could not fathom how a little piglin, a particularly dumb species with no natural knack for learning or adapting, managed to comprehend and use human speech. It was so strange to the harpy that such a creature, having a history of being particularly dumb, was able to muster the brainpower to act and talk and  _ be _ a human. Techno was one of a kind, truly unlike any other mob that Phil had ever encountered in his whole life.

The piglin had picked up English at an unnaturally fast rate, and after just a few months he was capable of fluently having a conversation with only minimal mess ups, capable of reading, capable of arguing and singing and- so much more than Phil ever thought. His expectations were surpassed by mass amounts, so much so that he was just blown away by everything Technoblade did since his first words were uttered (which, by the way, Wilbur made sure it was something that Phil didn’t want to repeat to an audience).

When he ended up stumbling across Techno reading greek literature that he himself hadn’t touched in years, Phil was certainly surprised, though honestly at this point everything Techno did was a surprise.

“Techno’s all smart n’ shit,” Wilbur said. He was sitting above them, guitar clutched in his hands, legs dangling from the wooden platform nestled nicely in the branches; they were in the process of building a treehouse, though Wilbur was honestly too lazy to go collect materials for it, so it had been halted for a couple weeks now, just a floating platform in the giant oak.

“Yes, I know,” Phil said in response, looking up at his other son. The harpy hybrid was leaning on Techno, barely taller than him when they were sitting on the ground like this, watching over Techno’s shoulder and skimming the words on the page.

“I’m smarter though,” Wilbur retorted.

“Yeah, okay, Mr. ‘ _ Reading is for nerds’ _ ,” Techno mocked, voice deeper than anyone could possibly expect from a pig.

“Oh shut up, not even Phil has read ‘ _ Thesues and the Minotaur’ _ or whatever the fuck.” Wilbur put his fingers up to make air quotes about the book, rolling his eyes as he did so. Techno frowned, and Phil shifted uncomfortably and looked down to his palms in his lap.

The two of them bickered quite frequently. Phil was under the assumption that it was because Wilbur was upset that Techno didn’t do everything he said like he had supposed. Surely the musician would have gotten over that by now, it was a little over half a year?

“It’s a good story, he really should.” Techno looked over expectantly at Phil, and Wilbur above them groaned.

“I’m sure I read it quite a bit ago.” Techno smiled enthusiastically, tilting his gaze up to Wilbur and sticking out his tongue.

“See? Even dad is cultured.” Wilbur huffed and turned his head upward so he didn’t have to look at Techno, seething annoyance radiating off of him. Techno lowered his head at the lack of response from his brother, turning back to his book and absentmindedly playing with the fold of the page. 

“Aye, Techno, I do love you and I’m super proud of you for always breaking my expectations. Reading Greek classics is a big feat you know.” Phil pulled Techno toward him, ruffling the hair-like fur on his head making the piglin squeal and forget about Wilbur’s demeanor.

“Dad!” He cried, pulling away from Phil and stumbling as he got to his feet, laughing. Phil was laughing too, though Wilbur above them was quiet and just strumming the strings on his guitar absentmindedly. Phil didn’t want to think much of it.

“Alright alright Tech, I need an extra pair of hands, do you think you could help me move some hay bales into the barn?” Phil asked, getting to his feet slowly and stretching. Techno nodded, tail bobbing along as he moved. “Right then, come on kiddo,” he gestured for Techno to follow, and together they left Wilbur watching them from his tree, frowning as he strummed his guitar by himself.

When Wilbur’s tree was far enough, Techno tugged on Phil’s sleeve, stopping and pulling Phil back. The harpy looked over his shoulder in confusion, stopping beside him.

“Tech? What’s up?” Phil asked, Techno looked down to the floor, thinking, and Phil touched his hand to Techno’s chin, titling it back up to look at him. “You can tell me if something is bothering you. No matter what WIlbur says to you you can voice your emotions to me.”

The pig huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, tail pushing blades of grass back. “Wilbur, Wilbur is stupid,” he said. Phil let his hand drop.

“Why do you think that of your brother?”

“Because he doesn’t like me, he thinks I’m stupid too.” Techno said. “He doesn’t like it when you interact with me. He makes fun of everything I do and say, he laughs at me when I share my interests. He, he… oh, how do you say this in English? Um, he wants what I have.” Techno made a few snorts in frustration for not knowing the right word and, though he was concerned, Phil couldn’t help but crack a smile at Techno’s language struggles.

“I think the word you’re looking for is  _ jealous _ ,” Phil said, and Techno nodded.

“He’s jealous. Jeal-ous. Jealous of me. And he’s mean to me. And he hates me.”

“You think he hates you?” Phil asked, and Techno nodded once more.

“Yeah, he’s always like, ‘ _ Technoblade why does Phil love you more than me, you don’t deserve it _ .’ and ‘ _ you took everything from me Technoblade’ _ and  _ ‘i hate you for being here’ _ n’ stuff,'' Techno frowned and crossed his arms. “No matter what I do he despises me.”

Phil felt a swirl of guilt surge in his gut. Had he really just ignored WIlbur’s hate of Techno? Surely he had just underestimated it, Wilbur  _ was _ the reason Techno was here, afterall.

“I see.” Phil turned to look back at Wilbur’s tree. He hated how much Wilbur hid his feelings.

“I don’t want Wilbur to hate me, dad. He’s my brother, he’s supposed to like me. Brothers love each other, that’s what you told me. I don’t want you to get rid of me if Wilbur doesn’t like me,” Techno mumbled, and Phil whipped his head back around.

“Technoblade!” Phil scolded, earning a confused and fearful frown from the pig. “Don’t you ever  _ ever _ think I am going to abandon you. You are my  _ son _ . You’re just as big a part of this family as Wilbur is. If he has a problem with you, I can talk to him. Nothing is wrong with you.” Phil opened up his wings and pulled Techno into a hug, and the pig rested his head against Phil’s chest.

“You mean it?” He said, though his voice was kind of muffled by Phil’s shirt.

“I absolutely mean it. Just because I didn’t expect you to join this family does not mean I don’t want you to be a part of it. I love you just like I love Wilbur. You’re important to me.” Phil smiled down at Techno, and the pig looked up at him. He wasn’t crying, Techno never cried, but his eyes certainly were damp.

“Thank you. You’re the best family I’ve ever had, dad,” Techno said, hugging Phil tight. Phil smiled, petting the pig’s head until he pulled away. He wiped at his eyes quickly, not wanting Phil to see how emotional he was getting.

“I can go talk to Wilbur, if you’d like?” Techno nodded, staring down at his trotters as he twiddled them together. “Okay, I can do that. You want to go move the hay bales to the barn for me?”

“Ah I can do that, of course!” Techno clapped his trotters together and ran off with a smile, and Phil watched him duck around the corner of the barn before turning back on his heels and following the footprints the two had left in the grass until he was back at the base of Wilbur’s tree.

“Wilbur?” He called up into the leaves. What returned was the rustling of something in the treetop, some leaves falling to the ground before Wilbur jumped down from the branch he was on onto a lower one. His guitar smacking against his chest made a thump, and he shifted around on the branch before Phil spoke.

“Wilbur.”

“Yeah?” He said. His eyes were red and puffy.

“You were up further in the tree than you usually are.” Wilbur didn’t respond, staring to the side like he did pretty often when avoiding the subject. 

“Wilbur,” Phil said again, harsher this time. Wilbur looked down in Phil’s direction, face blank.

“Come on Wil, talk to me.” Phil said, putting his hand on the trunk of the tree and looking up at Wilbur, who had moved his gaze from Phil’s face to the grass. The boy kept silent, just holding his guitar and staring down at the grass blankly.

“Fine, if you won’t talk, I will.” Phil put his back against the tree and slid to the floor, resting himself comfortably between the trunk and a particularly large root. The book Techno had discarded not too long ago was laid haphazardly in the dirt, and he reached to pick it up, bookmarking the page it was left on.

“It’s okay to be upset, Wilbur,” Phil said. He didn’t expect a response. “It’s not okay to tell your brother you hate him. I know you’re jealous of Techno, I know you’re mad, but it isn’t fair that you take your emotions out on him.” Rustling above him caught the hybrid’s attention, and not a moment later Wilbur ungracefully dropped to the ground. Phil watched him jump and barely tip his guitar over the side of the branch so it fell into his arms before getting to his knees and making himself comfortable in the dirt and grass beside his father. 

He didn’t say anything, but that was okay.

“You’re the reason Techno is here. You can’t suddenly change your mind now that he’s found a place in my heart, Wil.” The boy shifted behind him. “You’re fourteen years old and you’re throwing a temper tantrum like you’re a toddler, kiddo.” Beside him WIlbur groaned, and Phil couldn’t help but chuckle. He did this every time something wasn’t going his way; it was honestly a bit ridiculous, but he supposed it’s what made WIlbur,  _ Wilbur. _

“You like him more than me and it isn’t fair because I was here first,” Wil grumbled into his elbow. “I hate him for it.”

Phil stretched a wing out and let it lay limply against Wilbur’s side. They were a few good feet apart, he wanted to give him space, but he also knew things wouldn’t go well if Wilbur felt too distanced.

“He loves you Wil. And just because he’s here doesn’t mean I love you any less. You’re still my son even if Techno is my son too.” Wilbur looked up and over at him and tilted his head like a dog.

“WIl, I said the same thing to Techno. Him being here does not make me love you any less, just like you being here doesn’t make me love him any less.”

“But you pay more attention to him, you-”

“Wilbur, you’re being temperamental again.” Phil quickly shut the boy down, and he just curled his knees to his chest and pouted. Phil kept quiet, let the boy wallow in his thoughts for a moment.

“Is he mad at me?” Wilbur finally squeaked after a moment, his voice sounding so small. It made Phil sigh, he had forgotten again that Wilbur was still just a kid and made plenty of mistakes.

“He isn’t mad. I’m not mad. Techno is just worried, he doesn’t want you to dislike him. He cares about you a lot you know.” He could see the tension in Wilbur’s shoulders give way almost immediately, and the boy uncurled himself from the ball he was in. “I know I’m bad at giving you the attention you want, Wil. You’re so different from me that I have a hard time figuring out how to give you what you need and deserve. But just because I struggle doesn’t mean you’re any lesser than your brother, any lesser than anyone.”

Wilbur pushed himself up from the ground, looking back at Phil.

“Can I apologize?”

“Of course. He’d love that, actually.” Phil went to take a step forward, but stopped when the weight of Phil’s hand on his shoulder caught his attention. The harpy had gotten to his feet, wanting to follow.

“It’s okay to be upset, but you can’t let that upsetness cloud your thoughts, alright?” Wilbur nodded, and Phil smiled. “Come on, I told Techno to deal with the hay bales by himself. What do you think, did he actually do them, or did he get distracted?” Phil asked. Wilbur laughed after a moment, following Phil as he stepped in the already indented bits of grass he and Techno had made.

The two of them reached the barn and, sure enough, Techno was on the floor. Some hay bales were stacked in the corner, but he was far too busy occupying himself with one of the young horses. The foal sat across from him chewing on some of the hay, and Techno was just on his stomach watching as it ate. He looked up when he heard the door swing open, but eyes soon traveled back to the brown colt.

“Technoblade, you didn’t get very far into moving the hay, did you?” Phil said, stepping to stand beside Techno, who looked up at him with wide eyes.

“No, but this horse piglet really wanted some hay! I think I want to name him Carl.”

“Horse piglet?” Wilbur laughed from behind Phil, and Techo moved his head to see WIlbur bending over wheezing.

“What? It's a horse piglet!” Techno said, ears pulled back in embarrassment. Phil laughed too, bending down to pet the horse on the head.

“It’s called a foal, Techno.” Phil said cheerfully, and a small ‘oh’ escaped Techno’s mouth. “I do like the name Carl though. Do you want him to be your horse when he grows?” Techno’s enthusiastic nods were a clear answer, and Phil chuckled before urging both Techno and the horse to their feet.

“I’m gonna go put Carl back in his stable, why don't you talk to Wilbur?” Phil said, opening a wing and pointing in Wilbur’s direction. He was leaning against the side of the barn still laughing, though abruptly pulled himself together when Phil said his name. Phil pushed the pig toward his brother before pushing the foal forward, turning on his heels.

“Wilbur,” Techno said meekly.

“Technoblade.”

Phil kept quiet, listening to them intently. He wanted them to figure out how to get through their problems without his help, and step one was pushing them out of their comfort zones.

“I’m um, sorry, Technoblade,” Wilbur murmured. Short, sweet, and simple. Just like WIlbur himself. Phil couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t hate you. I know I say it but I don’t mean it. I’ve been, quite frankly, an asshat to you. I-I mean, I’m the one who invited you here and yet I’m treating you like a ruffian.”

“It’s alright. We both know neither of us are good with words,” Techno said in response. The two of them fell silent, and Phil waited a moment before peeking around the corner to see what they were doing.

“So... we good?” Techno asked a moment later, and Wilbur nodded.

“Yeah. When Phil comes back we can just tell him we hugged it out or something.” Techno laughed, hitting Wilbur on the shoulder.

“Yeah, like he’ll believe that.”

They leaned on one another laughing, the tension in the air practically gone. Phil finished getting Carl into his corral before returning to the two boys, pleased.

“Well? Are you two alright again?” The boys nodded in unison, and Phil clapped his hands together. “Right then! Can the two of you help me finish moving the hay bales from outside?”

“I guess,” WIlbur murmured, setting his guitar against the wall. Techno tugged on Wilbur’s arm, causing the musician to turn his head.

“Race you to the farm,” the pig jeered, and WIlbur rolled his eyes even though he was clearly smiling.

“You’re on, hog.” Wilbur ran off, followed by Techno shouting obscenities about how it wasn’t fair that he got a head start.

Phil turned to his horse in the stable nearby, the creature watching the scene play out with intent eyes. Phil laughed, and the horse whinnied, shaking its head and stamping a hoof.

“I know, they’re ridiculous,” Phil said, stepping toward the horse and patting it between its eyes. He reached in his pocket and held out an apple for her, which she graciously accepted.

“I better go, they’re probably grappling in the fields right about now,” Phil chuckled, patting the horse one last time before walking out of the barn, staring out at the fields before him. Techno and Wilbur were rolling around, their laughter permeating the quiet air. Phil smiled, stepping down the barn steps and headed toward the two boys.

“Stupid little idiots. I love them.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are appreciated!! <3  
> im mostly working on this in my off time, so updates are sporadic


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